The Cycle of Vengeance
by Christine Anthemum
Summary: When does the cycle of vengeance end? Sebastian retook Starkhaven and since hunted Anders, the abomination who murdered the Grand Cleric, and Hawke, his lover and the woman who spared him. When Hawke alone is captured, Sebastian must decide how far he is willing to go for revenge.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age.**

 **Summary:** When does the cycle of vengeance end? Sebastian retook Starkhaven and since hunted Anders, the abomination who murdered the Grand Cleric, and Hawke, his lover and the woman who spared him. When Hawke alone is captured, Sebastian must decide how far he is willing to go for revenge.

 **AN: I almost didn't post this one, but I had a dream a few nights ago and it just grew.**

 **I probably won't finish it for a long time, but... I don't know. I just had to.**

* * *

"The runaway apostate Hawke has been captured by the Templars, my prince. They've just arrived in the city."

At the servant's news, the prince turned from the window to face the young elf. He wore a fine leather jerkin with the Starkhaven colors of red and black with the gold sun on a chain around his neck. His finely tanned face was clean-shaven and proud, his bright ocean eyes standing out against his caramel skin.

Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven pressed his mouth into a firm line. "What of Anders?"

She shook her head apologetically. "He was not with her, your grace. They found her alone."

Though his brow wrinkled with confusion, he didn't ask anything further.

"Thank you, Lorna. Tell them to bring her straight to me."

* * *

The group of five Templars moved lazily down the trail on their horses, their lone prisoner trailing behind the first on foot. Her hands were bound to the horse to the front of the group with two riders beside her, and the last two rode behind her.

Out of all the Templar groups that had gone out in search of the apostates, theirs was one of the smaller ones, and they were rather surprised that they had caught her.

The leader of the group, a Templar veteran named Colin with dark hair and skin, found the apostate particularly curious. As he rode beside her he noticed that she kept her gaze forward, her chin up, and her back straight. Not once had she spoken since they caught her sleeping alone in a field. Either pride or stubbornness was stopping her from asking for rest or water.

She wore a hooded, old-looking grey woolen cloak over her blue-gray mage robes, which glowed faintly with enchantment. As she walked, she kept the hood up; possibly to protect her pale face from the harsh sunlight.

She had barely struggled at all; this confounded Colin.

When they found her in that clearing, he'd been worried, he'd admit. He had only four other Templars with him, and even if they managed to hit her with a smite, she likely had lyrium potions with her.

But she was silent and still on her bedroll, her eyes shut even when he was sure they made noise when their boots moved through the glass.

The other Templars surrounded her, and Colin smote her.

With a cry of pain, she had jerked up and lashed out at the nearest Templar with her fists on instinct. She bloodied Marcas's nose before they restrained her and she seemed to realize what was happening.

Colin knew it was her; Prince Sebastian had described her in great detail before he left.

The prince spoke of a beautiful woman with long, wavy, golden-brown hair, hazel eyes, and pale, freckled skin. This woman was a perfect match. The prince hadn't lied; she was a lovely young lady.

His orders were that he take her alive, and if they found her, the murderer Anders was likely nearby. When they searched, however, there was no sign of anyone, let alone an abomination. She was alone.

They asked her if she knew where the abomination was, but she only shook her head silently, meeting their gaze with a defiant calmness that irritated a couple of the men.

They took her staff with them; if anything, they could sell it for a high price to shops. Even he could admire the beauty of the weapon. It was white, possibly carved from a dragon's rib; at the top was a faintly glowing blue stone. However, unlike other staves that he'd seen, beside the stone was a curved blade; razor sharp to the touch. With enough force, it could cleave a man in two. It was obviously used for both ranged and close combat; quite practical, for a woman like herself.

He and his men all carried canteens of water and meat in their packs. Whenever they were hungry or thirsty they drank or ate without stopping. The apostate, however, had no such liberties. Still she said nothing; only occasionally twisting her hands in the lyrium cuffs which kept her and her magic at bay.

Colin could tell his men were baffled. Marcas, one of the more experienced of his men and rode at the front of the pack, was still angry about her taking him by surprise. Colin actually found that rather funny; in all his sixteen years of being a Templar, he'd never seen a mage attack with their fists instead of their magic. Most of them couldn't possibly have packed the punch she had, either.

Davidson, who rode behind her, seemed more interested in her silence. He kept asking her why she said nothing, why she never answered his questions. He didn't become angry when she didn't answer him. When he grew tired of questioning her he instead spoke to one of the others.

The youngest Templar of the group, Tristan, rode on her other side. He was a kind, clever boy with ginger hair and brown eyes, and every once in a while, he asked her if she needed rest or water, offering her his canteen. He was the only one she gave any kind of acknowledgement, nodding yes or no.

She hadn't asked to stop once. Colin kept their speed as reasonable as possible to keep from being cruel.

Astoundingly, they made it about a third of the way back to Starkhaven before night fell and they stopped to sleep. Tristan volunteered first watch; Colin could swear he saw a spark of fancy in the young man's eye, but he allowed it. Together, they watched her sleep half the night, apparently uncaring of the five surrounding Templars.

Colin never expected that when the prince said, "No matter what, you must bring her back alive," that his job would be fairly easy.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Elthina, no! Maker, no!" Sebastian cried, falling to his knees before the smouldering wreckage of the Chantry. Hawke's heart shattered into pieces; how could this happen? "She was Your most faithful; Your most beloved. Why didn't she listen to me?"_

 _She turned to Anders, horror in her eyes. "Anders," she choked, as if she couldn't believe it. "What-"_

 _He met her stare with nothing but cold determination. "There can be no peace."_

 _She couldn't bear to look at him, but her gaze was frozen on his face as his form suddenly errupted into blue flame._

 _ **"Every one of them will feel Justice's burn!"** He bellowed, Anders's voice drowned out by the monster of vengeance he'd become._

 _"Anders, no!"_

 _She was too late. He'd already reached out, touching everyone. Meredith, Orsino, Varric, Merrill, Fenris, Aveline, Isabela... they all burst into flames. They screamed, thrashed, rolling on the ground, anything to get the flames off... it was no use. The fire clung to them, never leaving their skin even as they swatted them and covered them with dust. One by one, they fell, expressions of the most excrutiating pain etched into their dried out faces._

 _Everyone but Sebastian._

 _When she looked down, even she was on fire. Her robes turned to ash, her skin blackened, shriveled, melted off her bones... Yet she didn't die. Her tears of agony never reached her cheeks, swallowed up by the heat of the blaze._

 _How could she still live? How could she live through this pain?_

 _Sebastian was the last one to be touched by the inferno. He stood before her, his expression dark when he met her eyes. He was scowling, his eyebrows pulled down in a hateful glare. He regarded her as if she set the fire, as if she'd killed everyone._

 _"Monster," he snarled, his blue eyes filled with venom._

Hawke jolted upright, gasping for breath, her fingers digging into the bedroll. "No..."

"Easy, there," a man said from beside her.

She sat in the Templar camp. The leader of the group stood before her, his hand out in case she tried to strike at him, his other resting on the hilt of his blade.

With a sigh, Hawke laid back down on the bedroll, shifting onto her side.

With a constant reminder of what she had done and a lack of mana or lyrium, she knew the nightmares would only get worse.

She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, trying to drift back into the Fade. Perhaps this time, she could forget the look of betrayal in his eyes when she let Anders go.

...

On the third day at the crack of dawn, the kind young Templar with red hair, Tristan, pulled her up onto his horse, despite the protest from the Templar that Hawke had punched and the disapproving stares from the others, and they traveled much more quickly.

Hawke very nearly sang his praises. Her legs had been burning from the nonstop walking and her feet had developed blisters; a rest was needed, even if she refused to ask for one.

The leader of the small group, (Ser Colin, she learned) turned to look at her once again; likely making sure she wasn't causing trouble. She nearly rolled her eyes. Her hands had yet to be free from the shackles on her wrists; she was hardly a danger unless she decided to beat them over the heads with her fists. The sour one that she punched had taken to wearing a helmet after that, though the weather was rather warm for it. The sight nearly made her mask of indifference crack into a smirk.

Around midday, the gates of Starkhaven came into view. She visibly tensed, and so did the Templars behind her, but she did nothing to try to stop them. So, this was it. Her time had come.

They slowed the horses to a trot, the trail becoming wider, then turning into a road. They passed a few merchants, coming and going from Starkhaven; they gestured to her and stared, whispering.

"That's the Champion of Kirkwall," one of them said.

The woman beside him spat at her, and the child in their cart waved.

Hm.

The gates were open to them, protected by the city guard. It was likely those great doors were only shut when the city was threatened, she supposed. As the horses walked past, once again everyone looked up at her, gasping and whispering.

She ignored them, instead watching the sky, trying to remember exactly what it looked like. It was probably the last time she would see it, after all.

The gates were at the end of the city, with Arrow's Rest at the other. Meaning they had to go through the city before Sebastian would see and no doubt kill her. About half way, they dismounted the horses, Tristan helped her down, and they continued on foot. Ser Colin kept a tight hold on the chain that bound her to them, never taking his gaze off her. He didn't jerk it or pull too hard, however, and for that she was grateful.

She considered herself lucky. Other Templars might not have been as kind.

Soon, the castle guard were allowing her and her captors into the castle courtyard; her time was quickly running out.

Instead of taking her straight to the dungeons or the hangman's noose like she expected them to, they brought her through the great hall and into the throne room. The Starkhaven banner hung on each wall, the stone floor bare. At first, she thought it was empty; she saw no one on the throne, no one here but her and the Templars. Then they tore off her hood, and she nearly yelped in surprise.

"Hello again, Hawke."

She whipped around, nearly yanking her arm out of the socket when in pulled against the unyielding manacles, but she managed to see him.

Her heart leaped in her chest.

He was just as hauntingly beautiful as she remembered, looking every bit the ruler he was born to be. It wouldn't have mattered what he was wearing, but seeing him out of his 'Chantry Boy getup' had her licking her lips in appreciation.

His face was hard as stone, his words cold and emotionless.

She didn't care; she met his gaze unflinchingly until one of the Templars forced her to turn back toward the throne; another kicked her down and she fell painfully onto her knees.

She would no doubt have bruises.

A breathless laugh escaped her lips as her knees hit the hard floor. "And here I thought you never wanted to see me again. I'm touched you missed me so much, _your highness."_

The way she used that title was like a slap in the face and she knew it. She was purposefully antagonizing him in the hopes of at least reanimating his lifeless eyes, even if it meant seeing anger.

He made his way slowly around her until he was before her, between her and his throne. "It wasn't so much _you_ that I wanted to see, Hawke."

Ouch. She wanted anger, and anger she got. Even though this comment did hurt her feelings somewhat, she couldn't help but admire the angry flash in his eyes, the harsh set of his mouth, the sharpness of his Starkhaven purr.

"Where is he?"

She feigned ignorance. "He who? I know a lot of hes. My brother, Varric, Fenris, you," she listed.

He cut her off. "You know exactly who I'm talking about, Hawke."

Almost everyone here had that Starkhaven brogue; Sebastian's may not have been as strong from his time and Kirkwall, but hearing it again sent pleasant shivers down her spine. "Do I?" she said quietly.

Sebastian stepped forward and roughly grabbed her chin, forcing her head up. She raised an eyebrow in challenge, meeting his fierce gaze with her own.

"Where is Anders?"

"I don't know," she told him honestly.

She hadn't spoken to or heard from Anders since... the chantry.

His eyebrows lowered. "Hawke," he warned. "Do not try my patience. You will tell me in the end, but if you don't cooperate, I assure you, you will regret it." When she remained stubbornly silent, he asked again, "Where is he?""

Her eyes flashed fire at him, and even when he removed his hand she did not lower her head. "I. Don't. Know."

"Don't you dare lie to me!" he snarled. "That... _abomination_ murdered Grand Cleric Elthina, an innocent woman! One who trusted you! _And you let him walk away!"_

"What would you have me do, Sebastian?" she snapped back. "Bring forth an answer I don't have? Yes, I once considered him a friend. Yes, I let him walk away. After he murdered an innocent woman."

And she hated herself for it. But if she had to go back, she would have made the same decision for the same reasons.

"If I did know where he was, I would not hesitate to tell you, believe me," she said flatly.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Why should I believe you? Why would you turn in your lover?"

She gritted her teeth. "You shouldn't. And if you thought I wouldn't tell you, why do you ask?"

"I wanted to give you a chance," he said coldly. Hawke did not reply.

He went quiet then for a long time. The Templars didn't move; she didn't dare breathe.

Then, "Knight-Commander."

An order, not a question.

Colin sighed. "Yes, sire."

* * *

She was just as hauntingly beautiful as he remembered; even more so, if it were possible.

And he hated her for it.

Her voice echoed in his mind long after they had removed her from his presence. He knew she was lying. She _had_ to be. And yet...

A small part of his mind argued that she might be telling the truth, and if she was, what he was about to do was unspeakable.

He silenced it as best he could and returned to his study. As if burying himself in paperwork would make him forget her and the look of betrayal he saw in her eyes when he walked away.

He just had to focus. Anders would come for her soon. And when he did, he would die.

* * *

 _Then_ came the dungeon.

She was almost relieved when it came into sight. It was almost comforting in it's familiarity. It was expected.

Deserved.

She did not resist when they took her cloak, boots, gauntlets, and robes, leaving her in just her breastband and smallclothes.

Then they threw her into a room sized cell and slammed the door shut, and left her alone.


	3. Chapter 3

The first day was unexpected, and somewhat troubling. In all honesty, she had expected him to kill her as soon as she was before him; when he abandoned her in Kirkwall, his harsh words had made her believe no less. But he didn't come down to see her, and it seemed he intended on keeping her prisoner.

She was woken up before dawn by a Templar, kicking her in the stomach with a metal-toe boot. She cried out in pain, and his fist followed.

She'd be lucky if her eye didn't swell shut.

Then she felt the familiar, gut-wrenching tear of her magic being ripped from her and she jolted as if stuck, whimpering quietly. It was something she had never wanted to experience again; let alone before she had recovered. Sweat beaded on her brow as she fought to catch her breath, praying they would stop.

If they continued to do this, every day without letting up, she had no doubts that it would kill her.

"You should have told Prince Vael what he wanted to hear, _maleficar,_ " one of them said. "You could have saved yourself a lot of pain."

And they left her alone once more, her body shaking from the absence of her magic.

They did not return; they did not bring her food or water. She was glad they had not come back, but her stomach was aching and growling.

How long would it take for her to break and tell false information, just for them to feed her or finally kill her?

She rested her forehead on the cold stone floor, and she prayed that the Maker would show her the mercy of a quick death.

* * *

The second day was quiet as the grave.

Hawke paced her cell, stretching her sore, aching limbs and thinking; always thinking.

She did not want to dwell on her past in Kirkwall; the memories were painful to her, but she could not shut them out. She never could; she probably never would.

She missed her friends.

Varric, her adorable, irritating, witty dwarven companion was often in her thoughts these days. Ever since they had parted, she had missed him. Sometimes she would forget he wasn't there and ask him how his latest book was coming, or reached out to touch Bianca just to get that scandalized look he always shot her. But her words and fingers touched only empty air.

Fenris's dark, intimidating presence would have made her feel so much braver. He never faltered. He would never act as she had - surrendering to her hunters without conscious fight, letting them drag and beat her. She wondered what he would think of her now, cowering here in the Starkhaven dungeons. She could imagine him growling Tevinter curses at her, demanding to know why she'd done what she'd done. Why she'd given up like a coward.

And Merrill was such a darling. She was so sweet, and her innocent naivety was charming.

She missed that. She wished she had that right then. She would have given almost anything to see her again.

She missed Isabela. That pirate queen had more than proven herself as one of her most loyal and dependable friends, despite her less than ideal past. She missed Isabela's crude, filthy comments. She missed how the pirate had interacted with Merrill, with Varric, and Aveline, ooh, those two were her favorites to force together into a group. Aveline was so pure hearted and just, her nature clashed with Isabela's stabbier, sluttier one.

Hehe. Stabbier.

She missed how Isabela wrote her 'friend fiction', and Varric would read it out loud and the others would groan or squawk in protest.

She missed the way Isabela had made Sebastian blush.

She shoved that train of thought away as soon as it came, burying the image of his cute, flushed cheeks in the back of her mind. She couldn't think about him. Not then, not now.

She was reminded of the ache in her chest, the longing for the old days when Anders was just Anders, not Anders and Vengeance; when Templars didn't hunt her mercilessly; when Fenris and Isabela would flirt; when Merrill was so adorably innocent to the way of humans; when Sebastian would walk her home every evening; when Varric spun wild tales of glory and adventure.

No one came to see her. Not even a Templar.

The silence made her skin crawl; it was not something she'd ever been accustomed to. She was always with someone who had something to say, or she was always with people who had much to say to each other.

She waited for a sound, for a sign, for anything that would signal someone or something was alive down there. She cried, her tears making burning paths down her cheeks. She sang, letting her soprano soar and resound off of the stone walls of her prison. She talked for hours to invisible friends to herself. But there was still nothing.

Through the hole in the upper wall of her cell, she watched the sun set for the second time.

* * *

In the darkness of an empty cellar, a lone man hunched over a piece of parchment with a small candle, scanning over each sentence over and over.

His clothes were dirty and torn, a hood pulled over his head, and he simply worked, mindless of everything else.

At around midnight, his messenger arrived.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but... Prince Vael has captured the Lady Hawke, sir," the elf said. "They say he will execute her for her crimes."

Slowly, the hunched form straightened, turning and bringing the hood off of his head.

His blonde hair was almost shoulder length now, and his face was rough with the beginning of a beard from being unshaven for so long. His amber eyes, peeking over dark circles, stared into the face of the young elf.

Anders got to his feet. "She... when?" he demanded.

The elf flinched. He had seen Anders angry before; it was not something he wanted to see again. "I- I don't know, sir."

Anders sighed, deflating slightly and running a dirty hand through tangled blonde hair. "I have to do something," he said quietly.

The elf took an uncertain step forward. "But... sir, surely this is a trap! You can't mean to-"

Anders cut him off with a sharp look. "I would rather die trying to save her than live and let her die." He grabbed a piece of blank parchment from his desk, sat down, and began writing with his quill.

The elf sighed, but let it lie, leaving to deliver his next message.


	4. Chapter 4

He tried to ignore her presence and his guilt at her capture for a downward spiral of four days.

* * *

On the fifth day, Hawke woke to the sound of her door slamming open. Unconsciously, she flinched away from it, curling up into a ball in the corner with her arms protecting her middle and face. She knew the routine; they'd beat her, smite her, say some nasty things, then leave her alone. If she was lucky, they'd give her water and a crust of bread like they had on the third day. She prayed they would. Her eyes felt dry from all the crying she'd done.

Through the cracks of her fingers, she watched the figure in the doorway hesitate. She couldn't see his face, but she could tell the man was a Templar from his armor and helmet. A hand, encased in a metal gauntlet, reached down, grabbed her by the arm that was protecting her stomach, and pulled her up.

She noticed the other templars behind him and prepared for the worst.

"Prince Vael wants a word with you," the Templar who held her stated, tugging her into the group of Templars. One of them put a robe around her shoulders, and she obediently slipped her arms through the sleeves.

They put her back in shackles, but it didn't surprise her.

They dragged her back to the throne room and to her surprise, released her and left the room, shutting the doors behind them.

Without support, she swayed on her feet. She didn't have enough to eat when she was on the road, and her feet were blistered and bruised from the walking. Not only that, but she was exhausted; ever since she'd arrived, she dreamt of the Brand of Tranquility being seared onto her forehead. She hadn't slept well in days.

Her knees gave out, and she fell into a heap on the stone floor. She landed badly on one knee and shoulder, but couldn't bring herself to care as she curled up on the floor. A choked sound escaped her throat.

"Hawke..."

She looked up as best she could. Somehow, without her noticing, he had come up to her. Hm. Damn rogue. "What does your Highness require of me?" she said with as much cheeriness as she could manage, her voice cracking slightly at the end.

He said nothing as he strode towards her, stopping and kneeling beside her. Only when he reached out to touch her and she flinched away did he stop.

There were bruises on her cheeks and wrists, and that was only what he could see.

Disgust filled his gut. _He_ had done this to her. _He_ captured and beat her. He had practically tortured her.

Looking back, he tried to remember why he blamed and hated her for the death of the Grand Cleric. Blinded by rage, he'd thought she was an accomplice. He thought she would have killed Anders were he stood if she wasn't. He thought her mercy was proof of her guilt.

But looking at her beautiful sad face now, all his anger melted away.

Hawke was never a violent person by choice. He always knew that. It was why he had followed her, for the Maker's sake. The only time he could remember her shedding blood for vengeance was when the maleficar killed her mother, and even then his death was quick.

He knew she couldn't have been even partially responsible for what happened to Elthina.

"I need to know why you let him live, Hawke," he said seriously. "If you don't know where he is, fine. But just tell me how you could let him go after he did such a thing."

She sighed, turning her face down. "I couldn't," she said quietly. "I knew it was what he wanted. He wanted to die. He asked to die. And his crime... it had to be punished. I didn't have it in me to show him the mercy of a quick death."

"I don't... understand..."

"If he had died, by my hand that night, he would have become the immortal icon of the mage rebellion. It was what he wanted. He wanted to become a legend, to live on the lips of generations to come as a hero. He wanted to die in the most memorable way. I could not let him have that. This way, he'll die alone, forgotten, and all people will remember of the rebellion is that some madman with a demon in his head started it."

Sebastian didn't know what to say.

"Elthina did not care for vengeance, Sebastian," she reminded him softly. "She would not have wanted you to be consumed by it like this. I did it for her, as well; she would never want to be the reason for someone's death, even if they were a murderer. It's why we all cared for her."

 _Death is never justice._

He bowed his head in shame. He felt like such a fool.

"I'm sorry, Hawke," he breathed. "I'm so sorry." He gathered her up in his arms and held her close, placing a kiss on her forehead.

She sighed, closing her eyes and resting on his shoulder.

With her safely against his heart, he got to his feet, and he carried her out of the throne room.


End file.
